


Snap

by crowry



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adolescent Pining, Gen, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 18:51:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/814835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crowry/pseuds/crowry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fresh out of their first year at Hogwarts, Pansy Parkinson and her friends suffer through her sister's debutante ball, until they don't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snap

The cooling charms on the Parkinson's estate are old, powerful, and starting to go a little patchy. The knots of chatting adults are beginning to flush, though whether it's from the alcohol or the penetrating summer heat is uncertain. Most of them have flutes of champagne or glasses of wine clutched in their hands, and those who don't are waltzing in the middle of the ballroom or gathered around a severe elderly woman, who is gossipping loudly.  
  
Mr. Parkinson has his eldest daughter's hand caught in the crook of his elbow as he laughs at something Madame Nott has just said. It's Marguerite's debut, but she has been looking longingly out the French doors to the sunset-bathed grounds, where some sort of conjuring tournament has been going on between the older children for the last hour.  
  
A group of younger children who have escaped from the Parkinson's most tenacious nanny, a linty house elf called Mordune, are just outside the ballroom in an auxiliary antechamber. Among them is the youngest Parkinson child, Pansy, who has a much more fervent interest in Society, Etiquette, and the Proper Way of Things than her elder sister.  
  
She had offered to Polyjuice into Marguerite for the ball and spare her the misery of small talk and the risk ruining the family reputation, which was sure to happen if Marguerite engaged in any sort of lengthy conversation with a member of Society. (This was offered at a cost, of course. Pansy may have been twelve, but she wasn't _stupid_.) Unfortunately for both girls, their father had caught them and given the elf strict orders to keep Pansy and her friends away from the main event at all costs, up to but not including temporary dismemberment. It is important to give specific instructions to Mordune, who is alarming old and had been raised in a time where children were kept under strict control at all times, and consequently is unaffected by thoughts of physically injuring any brat with the cheek to disobey him.  
  
It's really thanks to Vincent and Gregory, their fellow Slytherins and lifelong scapegoats, that they've made it to the ground floor. Now, Pansy and Millicent Bulstrode lounge against the archway that leads off into the small alcove, peering with great interest around a thick velvet curtain into the ballroom. Draco Malfoy is sprawled inelegantly across a sofa, his outer dress robes rolled into a wad beneath his head, and Blaise Zabini is wedged in a gap between the hearth of the room's fireplace and an expensive oak sideboard.  
  
"I hardly think this qualifies as an antechamber," he says, tipping his head back against the wall and gesturing around. "It's so musty and--purple."  
  
Millicent gives him a weird look, shifting her gauzy robes up over her shoulders for what has to be the fiftieth time since her parents deposited her with the other children at the start of the evening. "Purple doesn't disqualify a room from being an antechamber, Blaise."  
  
Next to her, Pansy sighs. "I wish it was me out there. Marguerite looks like she could murder, and if she does it will be so much harder for me to enter Society well."  
  
"Marguerite always looks like she could murder," Draco sighs. "Her face has been stuck that way since you were born, Pansy. And if you're so offended by purple, Blaise, you can go turn yourself in. That coot of a house elf will be delighted to babysit you, I'm sure."  
  
Pansy and Millicent laugh, but Blaise rolls his eyes. "I'm not offended. Don't be a prat."  
  
"Oh, that's impossible," Pansy says loftily, and Draco pulls a face at the molded ceiling.  
  
"Do you think your sister will find a suitor?" Millicent asks, sounding unreasonably anxious on Marguerite's behalf. Draco groans and begins half-heartedly kicking the arm of the sofa.  
  
"I doubt anyone here would want to court a _Hufflepuff_ ," Pansy says. "Mother and Father have gotten over the shame, but they didn't correct me when I said only a Muggle would take her."  
  
"She's prettier than you," Blaise says. "I bet Albert Crabbe will try, at least."  
  
Pansy makes a face, now, and goes slightly pink. "He's a troll, I don't want him in the family."  
  
"What difference does a troll make to a Hufflepuff?" Blaise smirks. "She'll be too busy teaching him the finer points of teamwork and acceptance to notice he's got a face like a gargoyle."  
  
"Who _do_ you want in the family?" Millicent asks, and both she and Blaise catch her glancing over her shoulder at Draco's kicking feet. Blaise cackles, and Millicent lets out a conspiratorial "Ooh."  
  
"No one _here_ ," Pansy insists, and turns to look back around the curtain.  
  
After several minutes of charged silence, Draco hoists himself up against the back of the couch and says, "I am going to die of boredom." He is doing a good job of looking miserable, probably because he has had so much practice pretending. He's also mussed his usually slick hair by writhing irritably on the couch. "Because of this stupid conversation, and this wretched party, and you lot."  
  
"Because _you're_ so exciting, Draco," Millicent says drily.  
  
Draco closes his eyes in what he imagines is a tolerant fashion. "Millie," he sighs, "if not for me, we would still be upstairs in the music room with Vincent and Greg, learning Mermish hymnals."  
  
"Oh, no," Blaise snaps, "Do not try to take credit for my idea."  
  
"I am the only person who can communicate with them. Other people just don't understand how reliant they are on my instructions. It's a very special bond."  
  
Even Pansy rolls her eyes at this.  
  
"Anyway," Draco says. "It doesn't change the fact that there are still at least three hours before crusty old Madame Nott has had too much gin and scares everyone home, and I'm bored to death."  
  
"Have you ever had firewhisky?" Millicent asks, apropos of absolutely nothing.  
  
Pansy, Blaise, and Draco look at her with interest.  
  
"Once," Blaise admits, and the other three try not to look too impressed. "It was good."  
  
They are all silent for a moment, until Pansy abandons her position at the curtain and sits heavily on Draco's feet, smiling conspiratorially at him. "I have an idea."  
  
*  
  
"Bring us two bottles of Father's mead," Draco says, "or something. And four goblets."  
  
"And a pack of Exploding Snap," Blaise adds. Draco affects a sigh, but nods at the small greenish house elf before him.  
  
"Yes, and an Exploding Snap deck."  
  
"Dobby is bringing these things with the greatest haste," says the elf. "But Dobby must wonder if Young Master Draco's father is agreeing to this--"  
  
Draco gives him a strained look, apparently offended that a house elf would dare betray him to his father. "I order you not to speak of this to anyone," he says, "Not Father or Mother, or any of the other house elves. And make sure Father won't notice the mead--or whatever--is gone."  
  
"Dobby is swearing, sir," the elf squeaks, "Dobby will not even be seen, Dobby would never--"  
  
"Yes, yes," Draco says, flapping a hand at him, "Just go get the stuff and bring it back."  
  
"Yes, sir. Of course, sir!"  
  
The elf disappears with a _crack_.  
  
"I wish our elves listened to me," Pansy says irritably. "Father's given them all orders to ignore me. I have to make my own tea," she spits.  
  
"Poor you," Millicent says, rolling her eyes. "Mum won't get a new one. Ours died two years ago and it was the one who took care of her when she was a baby. Father thinks she's mad but he won't do anything against her."  
  
"Do you think we need two bottles?" Blaise asks Draco. The question is unhampered by any of his usual drawl, and when Draco answers, it's also unaffected. Both sound excited with the prospect of risk.  
  
"I'm not sure, but it can't hurt. Father's cellars are huge. He won't notice."  
  
"Hopefully," adds Blaise.  
  
They are all thoughtful for a moment, and then Pansy says, "Remember that time you kicked a peacock hen across the garden?" Blaise's eyes sparkle with delight.  
  
"And your arse was so bruised from paddling that you had to stand around like a proper little gentleman for a week and a half?"  
  
"No," Draco snaps, "and neither do you."  
  
"I don't," Millicent says, obviously feeling left out.  
  
"He was eight," Pansy confides, "It was wonderful. You know how he's always raving about getting everything he wants, well, he's been like that as long as we've known him, and I've known him _forever_."  
  
Blaise closes his eyes and smiles, evidently savoring Draco's past humiliation.  
  
Draco is kicking Pansy in the thigh when Dobby the house elf reappears with another _crack_ , holding four silver goblets in his spindly fingers, two bottles of red wine held in the crook of his elbow.  
  
"Ooh," Pansy says, as Blaise reaches out to take the wine and Draco watches Dobby place the goblets on a low, ornately carved table with inlaid gold leaf.  
  
Dobby gives them an anxious look, then bows so low to Draco that his nose is between his ankles. "If that is all you are needing, sir, Dobby will be returning to the Manor."  
  
"Yes, excellent," Draco says, and the elf vanishes. They all go to the archway and peek out from the curtains to check no one has heard them, faces blanked carefully of emotion, as if the trouble they will be in if someone spots them will be more severe if they look like they're enjoying themselves.  
  
Out in the ballroom, the number of people dancing has increased, as has the volume of Madame Nott's gossip. For a woman of nearly a hundred and five, her voice is extremely carrying. Marguerite is still clutched hopelessly at the side of Mr. Parkinson, who appears to be leading her around the room to each young man, many of whom already have girls with them. All of them are flushed and giggling and slightly damp, and they smell like the garden, which they have just abandoned because it has started to rain.  
  
Pansy thinks Marguerite might be planning ways to murder Edith Alden and make it look like an accident, because she is hanging onto Curtis Hardwicke's arm and whispering in his ear, to his apparent delight. Pansy is twelve and not stupid, and she knows Marguerite will be heartbroken if Hardwicke and Alden disappear to do whatever it is adults do when they run off at parties--snogging, she thinks, though she did see someone sticking their hands down someone's robes when she was nine, and has wondered sometimes since then (usually late at night) if Draco will ever drag her off at a party and kiss her and stick his hands in her clothes.  
  
Her face heats at the image of an adult Draco holding her around the waist, and she diverts her attention back to Marguerite, who is engaged in a whispered argument with their father. She spares a moment of well wishing for her stupid Hufflepuff sister and her stupid crush on Curtis Hardwicke, who is not even that handsome, and how she is probably going to have to spend tomorrow plaiting Marguerites hair and telling her she should've just _asked_ to be put in Slytherin, because then boys would be lining up to snog her and put their hands in her robes.  
  
*  
  
After some initial trouble with the cork, which Millicent had solved somewhat inefficiently by using her bizarre strength to break the neck of the bottle, and a scare with the interior door that caused Draco to hex Vincent so his ears crumpled painfully in on themselves, they each hold a goblet of wine. Vincent and Greg are looking apprehensively at their own goblets, which Pansy had retrieved from the sideboard and assured them that she was nearly certain they weren't Dark Objects.  
  
They must not be, or else their Dark Properties take a long time to manifest, because when all six of the children take a long drink of the wine, nothing upsetting happens, except Draco examines his goblet as if it has insulted him.  
  
"I thought this would taste better," he says.  
  
"It's because you eat too much cake," Blaise tells him. Vincent drains his goblet and pours another.  
  
"Leave some for the rest of us!" Pansy says, and then, "Let's play Exploding Snap. Millicent should deal, she's the least likely to cheat."  
  
"No, Greg is," Vincent says, and Draco nods in agreement.  
  
"Only because he can't figure out _how_ ," says Blaise, and Greg gives him a look that says "I have three stone on you" as eloquently as is possible for Gregory Goyle.  
  
"Fine," says Blaise, and they watch while Greg cuts the deck and quickly shuffles it, then deals the cards out evenly and carefully.  
  
"Oh, damn, I haven't got my wand," Pansy remembers.  
  
"I don't have mine either," says Blaise. "Lets play with our hands. Just touch the cards, you know. No wands."  
  
There's a murmur of agreement and Draco, Greg, and Millicent put their wands on the sideboard at Blaise and Pansy's insistence. "You'll cheat otherwise," they had said to Draco, and he had feigned offense but said, "I might still," which was a reasonable expectation.  
  
The first explosion was, as usual, a small one, but Vince still wins the pile and Draco starts to whine about his bones being delicate and could Blaise _not_ slam his fist down on everyone else's like a savage infant?  
  
He keeps getting his hand smashed, but only complains when he doesn't manage to call "Snap!" first and get his hand beneath the rest of theirs.  
  
"You should try for Seeker next term," Pansy tells him, torn between being impressed and irritable, as she had almost won that pile. She is starting to feel warm.  
  
Draco rolls his eyes. "Of course I should. I'm going to get father to buy me the new Nimbus."  
  
"That's not even out, yet," Millicent says. "Does anyone want more wine? I'm having some."  
  
Pansy and Vincent both hold out their goblets, and Blaise drains the rest of his before holding it out as well.  
  
"Oh, it's gone," she says, when it dribbles a few last drops into Blaise's half empty goblet.  
  
"Open the other!" Pansy says, and as Millicent wrestles the neck off the second bottle, she examines Draco, hoping to see him grinning like Blaise keeps doing.  
  
But Draco hasn't touched the stuff past his first gulp, and when he's not darting his hand under everyone else's and gloating, he does not look happy. In two rounds of Exploding Snap, Millicent has lost her gauzy over-robe and is pink in the face, and Blaise has taken his shoes off. He keeps smiling alarmingly at his deck of cards, and Pansy and Vincent keep giggling whenever they fail to claim a pile. Draco has set his goblet to the side of the group, and keeps looking at Blaise irritably, the way he does when he thinks he ought to have something someone else has.  
  
Millicent gets the second bottle open and they split it between them, though Greg seems to be going easier on it than Blaise, Pansy, and Vincent. Of course, no one seems to notice that Draco is not nearly as tipsy as they are, or that he has not gotten his goblet refilled at all. After three goblets, Blaise is laughing almost constantly, and Draco is winning, and Pansy feels compelled to lean on him. Millicent has abandoned her goblet and is now drinking straight from the bottle, passing it back to Vincent and Pansy when they reach for it.  
  
After five hands of Exploding Snap, the game becomes leisurely, because they are having a hard time remembering that it's their turn, and are giggling too much besides. Only Draco appears not to be having fun.  
  
"Are we playing or are we _not_?" he snaps, clenching the pile of cards he has just won in his hand, and looking murderous. None of the rest of them had even bothered calling Snap on that hand, and it is beginning to look like Draco is playing himself.  
  
"Don't get your pants in a knot," Millicent tells him, "It's just a game!"  
  
At this, the stack of cards in front of Draco explode with great force, and he topples backwards, barely catching himself on an elbow before his head smacks into the waxed, hardwood floor beyond the rug on which they are all sitting.  
  
In doing so, however, he knocks over the mostly full goblet of red wine, which spills as if someone has cast a slowing charm on it, into the white and grey carpet beneath them.  
  
They all stare for a moment. Beneath the fug of alcohol, Pansy feels panic bubbling in her throat.  
  
"Fuck," she says, having heard her father yelling this the other night. " _Fuck_."  
  
"Is this," Draco starts, and his voice cracks. "Is this that heirloom you told me about?"  
  
Pansy just stares at him, mortified, and then looks at the two empty wine bottles that have been placed on the sideboard.  
  
"Get it out," she whispers, then repeats it loudly. "A charm, there has to be a charm to get it out!"  
  
"Okay," he says, sounding a little hysterical, "Okay! I think--I know one, I think it should work." He scrambles up and past the other five to the sideboard, snatches his wand, and points at the pooling burgundy stain.  
  
" _Terignis_ ," he says, flicking his wand sideways.  
  
The carpet promptly bursts into green flames. Pansy, Blaise, and Greg all scream, and Millicent stands, grabs her wand and her overrobe, and runs from the room with impressive speed. Blaise pelts after her, stumbling a little, but Pansy, Greg, and Vincent all stand and stare as Draco attempts to put the fire out with a musty satin pillow from one of the sofas. He's pointing his wand at the scorched pile when Pansy realizes that the music outside the antechamber has stopped, and there is a mumble of dissent and the _clack clack_ of boot heels. She gives Draco one last frightened look, and has barely shut the door behind her when she hears the severe bark of " _What are you doing_!"  
  
She doesn't hang around to hear Draco's response.  
  
*  
  
(Lucius Malfoy is not known for his understanding and forgiveness, but for his devotion to the Dark Lord and his discipline. This, Draco feels, is an unfair way to deal with a bit of spilled wine, but he sits on the sofa alone, looking occasionally into his father's face and quickly away.  
  
"First, Draco, you tell me you have been beaten _in every single subject_ ," he is saying, "by a _mudblood_." Draco's face burns more than it did with the alcohol, which he feels completely devoid of now. It's not his fault Hermione Granger memorizes textbooks for fun, and he has told his father as much. It had gone rather poorly, also.  
  
"I hope you are ashamed of yourself," he tells Draco. "The Parkinsons are an important family, and you have just destroyed their property and added yet more holes to our family's reputation with your blundering incompetence."  
  
"Father," he tries, but Lucius gives him a questioning, darkly amused look. He shuts his mouth with a click of his teeth.  
  
"Think on what sort of man you would like to be, Draco."  
  
"I want to be like you, Father," Draco mumbles, hot shame burning in his stomach.  
  
"Then," Lucius hisses, "stop behaving as if you have been taught manners by a mob of filfthy Muggles. Behave appropriately for your station."  
  
Draco feels a surge of anger, wants to protest, and then goes cold when Lucius says, "I love you, Draco, but you cannot carry on this way. You embarrass me."  
  
He's heard these things before, of course--the firecall following his capture at the base of the Astronomy tower last term had included almost every reprimand Draco had ever heard from his father, and he has heard a lot. He stares at his father's mouth, shut tightly now, and hears the echo of _A child is a reflection of his parent, Draco; how do you think your behavior reflects on me? Do you think your rivalry with Harry Potter is becoming to my career? Do you think I enjoy telling the other Governors that my son has indeed landed himself detention and lost his house thirty points?_

He would bet the Nimbus Two Thousand and One his father has promised to buy him that Harry Potter has never been yelled at for being a poor reflection of his family.)  
  
*  
  
Pansy receives an owl from Draco a week after Marguerite's debut, detailing the things he is no longer allowed to do, and blaming her extensively since it was _her_ idea to begin with and her stupid, musty old rug. She responds as politely as she knows how--she tells him that her parents are too delighted that Marguerite has found a pureblood suitor to be very upset about a rug they never see in a room they never use, and that Draco's father might have overreacted. She apologizes, even though she thinks it was, for once, a real accident. Not like those other times.  
  
Their correspondence over the summer is halting, and Draco starts making infuriating hints about something interesting happening next term, and he categorically will not hear (or read) a single unpleasant word about his father, and calls Pansy a cow when she takes this route. She learns very quickly not to do this, and gets Marguerite to plait her hair when she's done crying about Draco's barbed, unpleasant responses.  
  
Marguerite tells her she should have asked to be put in Hufflepuff, where everyone is mostly very nice, but assures her that boys are all stupid and useless until they are of age, and then for some time after that, too, and not to worry about it too much. They sneak into the kitchens and Marguerite shows her how to make a pastry, and Pansy tries to recite a list of undetectable poisons and mispronounces half of them.  
  
"You know, Pans," Marguerite says, brushing back her hair with butter-sticky, floury fingers, "you're going to be alright. You've got a good head about you."  
  
"No," Pansy says, eating the finished pastry and thinking of being snogged and having Draco Malfoy's hands on her waist. "I don't think I have, but that's alright."


End file.
